Chasing the dragon: the 19th-century craze for opium made a fortune for many adventurers. Image: William Douglas Almond/ Private Collection / © Look And Learn / Illustrated Papers Collection / Bridgeman Images
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Amitav Ghosh concludes his Opium War trilogy in brilliant, ramshackle style

Amitav Ghosh’s new novel, Flood of Fire, takes you to the end of its exploring, only to hint that the story is just beginning.

Flood of Fire
Amitav Ghosh
John Murray, 624pp, £20

The most audacious moment in Amitav Ghosh’s new novel, Flood of Fire, ­happens in the final sentence. After 600 pages, Ghosh refers to “this telling” as being “as yet scarcely begun”. Is he sham-bragging about how much he has already written or signalling that he is just getting started? Whether or not Ghosh chooses to explore still more of the world that he has revealed in the unabashedly baggy Ibis trilogy – a world of 19th-century war- and money- and love-making, set in and across India and China, a world full of warriors, widows, addicts and hustlers, all connected to each other by their time on ships that are otherwise freighted with opium – his latest effort forms a fit conclusion to an enterprise that has stretched across nearly 2,000 pages.

Many of the characters and plotlines in Flood of Fire first appeared in Sea of Poppies, which followed the lives of people from various stations and parts of the world brought together on a ship, the Ibis, making its way across a rough Indian Ocean to Mauritius in 1838. That novel’s personal and historical situations developed, with new characters coming into the mix, in River of Smoke, in which the Ibis and two other ships are imperilled by a cyclone that sweeps across the Bay of Bengal just as tensions between Britain and China over the opium trade and larger economic dealings intensify to the point of likely war. In the final book of the trilogy, Ghosh writes about individuals fully caught up in the First Opium War (1839-42) as yet another ship, the Hind, sails from India to China, again with a motley cast, some seeking answers to questions created by the events of earlier books, others keen for money and adventure.

There’s much of both to be had, now that Britain has decided to send a military force to China to secure a more stable and favourable position for its trade interests, which are mostly about Englishmen getting rich using two Indian commodities in great demand in China: opium and indentured workers. This imperial gambit culminates in the claiming of Hong Kong for the Crown, but not before much blood is spilled by the Indian and Chinese soldiers fighting each other along the coastline at the behest of their respective overlords. “This is the road to glory,” reads a sign that a British soldier scrawls and puts up alongside the Union Jack, with gunpowder-scorched corpses strewn everywhere below.

Graphic and gripping, the novel’s extended and close-up treatment of battles, framed by grand pageant sequences of warships leaving various harbours, is interleaved with a vertiginous coming together of characters and plotlines from elsewhere in the trilogy, whether in a convenient chance encounter aboard a ship, or the result of hard determination to seek love or vengeance, to offer help or seek it. Meanwhile, ideas and arguments relating to the state regulation of the drug trade, to China’s ambiguous emergence as a player in the global economy and to wild western dreams of lucrative civilising missions in distant lands invest these 19th-century renderings with immediate, 21st-century relevance.

To get to all of this, however, requires patience. Ghosh spends the first 200 pages unpacking the situations of four characters in particular: Shireen, the Parsi widow of an opium merchant; Kesri, a brave and loyal low-born colonial soldier whose sister disappeared following a bad marriage; Neel, a fallen Indian nobleman now chronicling the political situation from China; and Zachary, a young American on the make who has survived misadventures and even criminal charges related to his first voyage on the Ibis and is now, as ever, keen to try again for money and love, roughly in that order.

Ghosh eventually moves all of these characters (save Neel) aboard the Hind and sends them to China. He then brings off a multi-part denouement that is at once personal and historical, with more than a few freighted observations about the Ibis along the way: “It has tied us all together in strange ways, ne?” These references may come off as unnecessarily self-indulgent to some readers, as will the extended opening segment of Flood of Fire.

But that is reading this work the wrong way. Ghosh wants you to take your time and get lost in the world he has conjured, which is very much helped along by his writing in a chutney of 19th-century English and Hindi and other languages, constantly sliding between decorousness and technical terminology, assorted pidgin and straight-up gutter slang. “It’s my turn now, to bajow your ganta,” the matronly Mrs Burnham tells Zachary in the midst of a love affair that is only initially comical. Don’t bother googling the phrase. Likewise, use your imagination to figure out what “chewing on a chichky” involves. Ghosh provides plenty of context, not to say an endless array of equally colourful synonyms, whether about sex or about war, money and drugs, the trilogy’s main preoccupations. This is all intended to keep you happily confined to the pages of this brilliantly ramshackle novel, which Ghosh declares “the climactic tamam-shud to this chronicle”, before suggesting that the story is really just beginning.

Randy Boyagoda’s latest novel is “Beggar’s Feast” (Penguin)

This article first appeared in the 04 June 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The myths of Magna Carta

Photo: Tashphotography / Stockimo / Alamy
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The Negroni fools no one – it’s easy to make and contains nothing but booze

It is the colour of danger, a red rag to anyone jaded by cocktail-world bull.

The cocktail is designed to lie about its origins; no wonder it reached its apogee during Prohibition, which forced everyone with an unrepentant thirst to lie about their cravings. Even today, when only extreme youth, religious belief or personal inclination prevents a person from draining the bar dry, the cocktail continues its career of dishonesty. It hides ingredients or methods. It provides a front for poor-quality booze. And it often dissolves, within its inscrutable depths, mountains of sugar, enabling drinkers to pose as sophisticates while downing something that tastes like a soft drink – to get drunk without leaving the playpen.

This is why I love the Negroni, which fools no one. It is easy to make and contains nothing but pure booze. Despite being a third sweet vermouth, it isn’t saccharine: the other two thirds, equal measures of gin and Campari, may have something to do with this. And it is the colour of danger, a red rag to anyone jaded by cocktail-world bull.

They say it was invented in Florence at the request of a Count Negroni, who wanted a drink unsullied by club soda – a drink stiff enough to get a man back on a bucking horse, perhaps, since this Count may have been a rodeo rider. I prefer to believe that the Count, if Count he was, came in, tossed down enough strong liquor to start telling stories about his American adventures, and, when he finally staggered out into the night, the exasperated bartender poured three straight shots into a single glass and baptised this wondrous reviver in grateful homage to the fabulist who had inspired it.

In a former glue factory a very long way from Florence or America, the East London Liquor Company now makes very good gin – Batches One and Two, the former tannic with Darjeeling as well as cassia bark, pink grapefruit peel, and coriander seeds; the latter redolent of savoury, bay, thyme and lavender. Transforming these plants into excellent alcohol seems an improvement on boiling down horses for adhesive, and the company also makes superb Negronis from Batch Two.

We sit outside, in a carpark made marginally more glamorous by border boxes of Batch Two botanicals, and marvel at the transformation of this grimy part of East London, next door to a park intended to give Victorian working men brief respite from lives all too lacking in myth or fantasy. It is a reincarnation at least as miraculous as the transformation of three strong and entirely unalike spirits into the delectable harmony of the Negroni. The sun shines; a fountain plashes. Nuts and charcuterie arrive. All is right with the world.

I leave my herbaceous bower and dangerously pleasing drink for a peek at the large copper distillery behind the bar, walking in past the fountain, a whimsical stone construction that pours vermilion liquid into two, tiered basins topped by a chubby putto clutching a rather reluctant fish.

And then I stop. And double back. Vermilion liquid? It is, indeed, a Negroni fountain. There are even slices of orange floating in the basin. I dip a finger: the taste is slightly metallic but still undeniably that potent mixture of booze, botanicals, bitterness, and just a hint of sweetness. A streak of citrus from the orange slices. It turns out that the world’s most straightforward cocktail lends itself to a decadent neo-Renaissance fantasy. There’s a message here, one forthright as a temperance tract: without imagination, we would have no lies – but no Negronis, either.

Nina Caplan is the 2014 Fortnum & Mason Drink Writer of the Year and 2014 Louis Roederer International Wine Columnist of the Year for her columns on drink in the New Statesman. She tweets as @NinaCaplan.

This article first appeared in the 20 July 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The new world disorder